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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



Chap. Copyright No, 

ShelL_..QjUfJ?5 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



\^J*Lpr, 



RHYMES 
FROM THE ROUND-UPCAMP. 



/ 
By Wallace D. Coburn. 



COPYRIGHTED 1399, 
By Wallace D. Coburn. 



50962 

ES RECEIVED, 

Register of CopyHght^ ^ ^ § f 



SECOND COPY, 



A Father's Advice to His Son 61 

A Tale of Love ioo 

At: the Animal Convention.... 50 

Bill and Parson Sim..... 37 

Brookside Ranche 102 

Cow-Boy Fun 24 

Cow-Boy's Fate, The „ 76 

Cow-Boy's Grave, The .. 93 

Cow-Boy's Reply, The ... 118 

Cow-Boy's Regret, The ..... 120 

Cow-Boy The 11 

Evening in the Bad-Lands.. ... .. .. 127 

Grub-Pile... 36 

Half-Breed's Tale, The...... 135 

Hidden Treasure Mine, The. 71 

Human Discontentment 68 

Indian's Tale of Christ, The 105 

Jack and Bill.. .. 84 

Little Cross, The.... 112 

Montanas at Caloocan, The ... 122 

Nature's Grand Opera • 125 

Obsequies of Jack, The 90 

Ode to the Old-Timers.... 12 

Old Cow-Boy's Tale, The .....:. 52 

Old Jack's Introduction to Wild Horse 130 

Stampede The r 14 

Springtime 20 

Sunrise in the Badlands 74 

To an Indian Skull 33 

Wild West 9 

Wolf Hunt, The .... 63 



Index to Illustrations* 



Wild West 9 

Stampede 17 

Cow-Boy Fun 25 

To an Indian Skull 33 

Bill and Parson Sim 41 

Wolf Hunt, The. 65 

Old Jack's Introduction to Wild Horse 133 

Half-Breed's Tale, The 137 






preface. 

Having- been urged by many of my friends to write a book of 
western verse, and, fortunately, having secured the assistance 
of my old friend and fellow range-rider, Charles M. Russell, 
the famous cow-boy artist, I humbly give to the public this 
little volume as the result of my efforts in that direction. 
There has been a deal of varied literature devoted to wild 
western life whose authors depend entirely upon what they 
derive from a flying trip through the west or a summer's 
sojurn in a western city, therefore, it is the object of the rough 
lines contained herein to describe, as closely as my feeble pen 
will permit, cow-boy life as it really existed some years previous 
to this writing and which is still to be found to a limited degree 
in some parts of the west along the line between Texas and 
northern Montana. My characters are taken from real life, as 
I have myself seen it during many years spent on the range, in 
town, camp and elsewhere with the wildest of wild cow- 
punchers, and it is needless to say that I have always found 
them the bravest, best-hearted and most generous set of men, 
taken as a whole, that it has ever been my good fortune to 
find myself associated with. Some of them have become 
successful and highly esteemed business men; others are still 
plying their vocation on the now limited cattle ranges, while, 
alas! too many of those braveN hearts are stilled forever and 
the ranges they loved so well know them no more. 

To those still living I respectfully tender this book, along 
with sincere hope that their lives may be long and filled with 
the happiness they so greatly deserve. 

Cordially, 

Wallace D. Coburn. 



Wild west! Sweet ruler of the past 

Whom I shall ne'er forget: 
To thee whose power once was vast, 

These lines I write, and yet — 
E'en as I write I fain would look 

Upon thy charms once more — 
As when in by gone times I took 

Advantage of the smiles you wore; 
But thou art gone and naught remains 

Of thy sweet presence here 
Except thy subjects of the plains 

Whose love for thee was dear. 
And even they are few and gray, 

And with the passing years, 
Like all thing6 human, fade away. 

Adown the vale of tears, 



Yes! thou art gone and in thy stead 

Dame Progress proudly stands 
With stolen crown upon her head, 

And blood-stains on her hands. 
But though from sight of loving eye 

Thou hast sadly passed away. 
My love for thee shall never die, 

Till in the ground my form they lay. 



& 



10 



Che Cow-Boy. 

Over the prarie the cow-boy rides, 
As a modern knight he stands alone, 

Blways ready with heart and hand, 
A typical prince of the western zone. 

No other land can claim his like, 

He's a native American, born and bred, 

A product of God's noblest land, 
The land for which his fathers bled. 



& 



ii 



Ode to the Old-Omers* 

Slowly, yet steadily, one by one, 

The Old Timers go to their last long sleep, 
And in each Montana has lost a son 

Whose precious soul she fain would keep. 
But they all pass over the great divide, 
To seek new fields on the other side. 

But few remain oi chose heroes bold, 

Who "came out west" in the early days, 
And opened the mines of yellow gold 

Where the elk and buffalo used to graze. 
Ah ! few of that gallant crew remain, 
Who in years ago came 'cross the plain. 



How many people in this great state 

Think of the hardships these men endured, 
And really and truly appreciate 
The wealth that they for our state secured? 
Alas ! there are few of those aged hearts 
We may yet make glad ere the soul the departs. 



& 



13 



"Che Stampede* 

Did you ever hear the story of how one stormy night, 

A wild beef herd stampeded, down yonder to the right? 

No? Well, you see that sloping hill, beyond the sage- 
brush flat, 

East of the old round-up corral, where all the boys 
are at? 

Twas one night in November, and I was on first guard, 

A storm was brewing in the west, the wind was blowing 
hard. 

Of wild Montana steers we had about a thousand head, 

Belonging to the "Circle C," and each one full of "Ned." 

The season had been rainy, and the grass was thick and 
long, 

So the herd had found good grazing in the hills the 
whole day long. 

14 



The clouds had piled up in the west, a strangely 
grotesque mass, 

And the rain began to patter on the weeds and buffalo 
grass. 

The lightning flared up in the clouds, and all was 
deathly still, 

Except the melancholy howl of a coyote on the hill. 

The vivid, shifting lightning kept bright the stormy 
scene, 

And I could see the broken hills, with wash-outs in 
between. 

And when Bill, who was standing first guard with me 
that night, 

Came jogging past, he 'lowed that it certainly was a 
sight. 

And then commenced to whistle, while I began to sing, 

The lightning flared along the sky like demons on the 
wing. 

But round and round rode Bill and me, with slickers 
buttoned tight, 

And looking like dim specters in the constant changing 



light. 



'5 



The thunder now began to peal and crash along the sky, 

The cattle pawed and moved about, and the wind went 
whistling by. 

Then, suddenly, without a sign, there came an awful 
crash, 

And my eyes were almost blinded by a bright and burn- 
ing flash 

That filled the air an instant, then as suddenly went out, 

While little sparks of lightning seemed floating all 
about. 

And then the scene that followed defies my tongue to 
tell, 

For those wild steers stampeded when the deadly light- 
ning fell. 

I don't know how it happened, but when my vision 
clears, 

I find that I am riding in the midst of running steers. 

And Oh! the thoughts that filled my brain as in that 
living tide 

Of hoofs and horns and glowing eyes, I made that 
fearful ride. 



16 



On and on at deadly speed, I dared not slacken pace; 

A stone wall could not stop us in that blood-curdling 
race. 

And if a cowboy ever prayed with fervor in his prayer, 

'Twas me among those madd'n'd beasts, for I prayed in 
despair. 

My horse was jammed and thrown about as o'er the 
rocky ground 

We sped like some vast torrent, with stubborn, sullen 
sound. 

But when my horse was almost gone, and death stalked 
all about, 

I heard above the awful roar a cowboy's ringing shout. 

And looking backward in the gloom, I caught a fleeting 
glance 

Of cowboys flitting to and fro, like spirits in a dance. 

And then I felt my nerve come back, like some old, 
long-lost friend, 

For I had given up all hope, and waited for the end. 

17 



At first I couldn't hardly tell just what they hoped to do, 

But soon I saw they meant to cut that running herd 
in two. 

For after chopping off a bunch, they lined up with a 
cheer, 

To form a wedge of solid men and charge them from the 
rear. 

Then on they came through tossing horns, with old 
Jack in the lead; 

The cattle parted stubbornly, but didn't slacken speed. 

On and on, with sturdy force, those brave lads 
struggled on, 

But I doubted if they'd reach me before my horse was 
gone. 

For, as I spurred his reeking flanks, and pulled his head 
up high, 

He slowly sank beneath me, and I felt that I must die. 

But up again he struggled, then down he went once 
more, 

And I found myself a knockin' at old death's gloomy 
door. 



18 



And when I got my senses, the hoofs and horns were 
gone, 

And Bill was kneeling at my side with streaming 
slicker on. 

You see, my leg was broken and chest was badly 
crushed, 

By half a dozen reckless steers, as over me they rushed. 

But it's hard to kill a cowboy ; they're pretty tough you 
know, 

Else I'd been riding in the clouds with angels long ago. 



& 



19 



Spring-Ome* 

I long to greet the spring time, 
With its wealth of power to charm, 

And sunny smiles that take the chill 
Of winter from the farm. 

When the snow is off the meadow 
And the grass begins to come, 

The farmers all look happy, 

And the bees commence to hum. 

Tis then that all the little birds 

Begin to bill and coo 
And try to build up happy homes, 

Just as we humans do. 

20 



When every morn at sunrise, 

A-sitting on a pole, 
The yellow-breast, in rippling notes, 

Pours forth his very soul. 

The cat-bird bathing at the spring, 

Calls loudly to his mate, 
And a jaunty robin red-breast 

Hops along the barn-yard gate. 

Tis then that man's proud nature 
Thrills with a softer glow, 

That makes his heart beat faster 
And his blood to swiftly flow. 



I long to see the wild flowers 
That in the spring time bloom; 

To watch them blossom in the sun, 
And breathe their sweet perfume. 

To saunter in the moonlight, 

When everything is still 
Except the plaintiff calling 

Of some lone whip-poor-will. 

'Tis then that love's strange powers 
Conquer the boldest hearts, 

And many a war is waged and won 
By Cupid and his darts. 



When the air is filled with music, 
And the woods are full of cheer, 

Ah! we can't deny that spring time 
Is the best time of the year. 



& 



23 



Cow-Boy fun. 

"Yes, stranger, them was red-hot times, 
And things they wasn't slow 

In this here little, one-hoss town 
Some twenty years ago. 

"Cow punchers they was in their prime, 

And genteel in their ways, 
And didn't ride the grub line, like 

You see 'em do now days. 

"The ranges* they was many, 

Where roamed the long-horned steer, 
The wild horse and the buffalo ; 

Likewise the elk and deer. 

24 




I 

i. 



" 'Nd sheep — that robber of the range- 
Why, on these western hills, 

If anyone had seen a sheep, 

'Twould have been a case of chills. 



"Water it was plenty, 

And the lakes was overflowed; 
The grass it waved like billows, 

When the western breezes blowed. 



"The cow-boy, he wore notches on 

His ivory-handled gun, 
To show the number of scraps 

That he had fought and won. 

25 



"There was Cussin' Sam, the captain, 

And Oklahoma Dick, 
And City Jim, the same as had 

The fight on Beaver crick. 

"Bill Riley he was in his prime, 
With Parson Sim, his chum; 

And Tin-Horn Pete was twistin' bronks, 
And wasn't on the bum. 



"Buck Berry he was then alive, 
And used to come to town 

To circulate his money and 
To throw good licker down. 

26 



"And Slippery Jake, the gambler, 

A ornery galoot, 
Was dealin' faro 'cross the way, 

With skinnin' games to boot. 

"Sich as loaded dice and montey, 
With marked cards, on the sly; 

But one day he played solitaire 
Between the earth and sky. 

"Old Dirty Dave, the round-up cook, 
He, too, was workin' then; 

With Club-foot, Yank 'nd Greaser Bill, 
And old Panhandle Ben. 

27 



"While Cotton-Eye, the night hawk, 

Was then a top cow hand, 
As reckless as they make 'em, 

And, you bet, he had the sand. 

"The women folks, them days, was brave, 

And never seemed to care 
To flirt and enter politics, 

Or rip around and tear. 

"But come and have another drink, 

My throat is gettin' dry, 
A-talkin' of them good, old times — 

Them happy days gone by. 

28 



"Gi' me some red-eye — that's the stuff- 
Jar loose an' let her run; 

There's nothing like old forty-rod 
To open up the fun. 

"Now, boys, let's have a stag dance, 

And celebrate, you know; 
The kag is full of whiskey, 

And our pockets full of dough. 

"Come, stranger, don't be bashful, 

This party ain't select; 
Though you're a simple tenderfoot, 

The boys they won't object. 

29 



"Say, boys, let's find a shepherd, 

A herder, that's the cheese, 
Like that old whisky soaker 

With his dog between his knees. 

"Come, Shep — you, over yonder, 

A talkin' to your dog; 
This ain't no lunatic asylum; 

Come, let's have a clog. 

"Oh! you don't know how it's done, hey? 

You're modest, that is all; 
Come, boys, let's start the music ; 

Now, herder, balance all. 

30 



"Start, now; you're up against it; 

Close up your blattin' face ; 
That's good; now slide out for the hills, 

Your dog has quit the chase. 

"Go! Pull your freight and vanish! 

Get out and split the breeze, 
Shake off the wool that's in your clothes- 

A little faster, please. 

"Now, gentlemen, the air is cleared 

Of that flea-bitten bum, 
Put up your guns and wet your throats 

With Casey's fightin' rum. 

3i 



"Here's to the happy days of old, 
When wages they was high; 

Come, drink, you won't get licker 
In the sweet bye and bye." 



& 



32 




u. 1 

i 
ft 



Co an Indian SfculL 

Oh! ghastly relic of departed life, 
Whose savage spirit once therein did dwell, 

Couldst thou but voice thy crimson past, 
What direful tales thy tongue could tell. 

As on the reeking trail of war, 

Thy bloody thirst was quenched in thee 

When round the torture stake, with burning brand, 
Thy cruel spirit laughed in fiendish glee. 

And if that fleshless mouth could speak, 
And cease its grim, post-mortem smile, 

Wouldst thou confess thy bloody deeds 
And fill these ears with stories vile? 

33 






As when thy mortal tongue was wont 
To boast of all thy bloody crimes, 

And how thy evil life was spent 

In seeking scalps those by-gone times. 



And how, when on the western plains, 
With war-plume dipped in pale-face gore, 

That lofty crest was parted with 
The raven locks it proudly wore. 

Where didst "thou get this woman's scalp 
That with thee in the tomb was found, 

With scars of tomahawk and knife, 
And weeping willow bent around? 

34 



Came it from some fair maiden's head 
Whose relatives had gone before, 

Slain by thy relentless band, 
Who thirsted for the white man's gore? 

Or did it come from matron dame, 
Whose little ones bewailed her fate, 

As to their bleeding form they clung, 
The victim of the red man's hate? 

Oh! ghastly relic of departed life, 
Whose changless smile is ever bold, 

Couldst thou but voice thy crimson past, 
What grewsome tales thou couldst unfold! 

35 



6mb pile. 

From out the mess-tent's grimy door, 
Making the cowboy's heart grow sore, 
Morn after morn, in the same old style, 
Comes the cook's call of "Grub Pile." 
To each cowboy it means the same, 
No matter what may be his name; 
In the morn's chill air it sounds a mile, 
That rasping cook's call of "Grub Pile." 
How harsh it seems to the waking ear 
When one more dream would be so dear; 
Ah! naught will ever reconcile 
The soul to that old call, "Grub Pile." 

36 



Bill and parson Sim* 

Bill Riley was a cow-boy, 
And a quicker shot than him, 

There wasn't in the country, 
Exceptin' Parson Sim. 

And I reckon you could ride the trail 

From Texas to the line, 
And braver men than Bill and Sim 

I bet you couldn't find. 

Bill he was tall and lanky, 
With black and piercin' eyes 

That seemed to flash like lightin' 
When storm is in the skies. 

37 



His voice was soft and solemn like 
His heart was kind and true, 

But he could paint the town as red 
As any man I knew. 

Sim he was mighty near as tall, 
With sunny eyes of blue 

That seemed to laugh and sparkle 
As eves will sometimes do. 



The boys they called him Parson, 

He owed it to his hair, 
And to the classic language, 

He'd use when he would swear. 

38 



They chummed as boys together 
And learned to shoot and ride; 

Worked for the same cow outfits, 
And grew up side by side. 

One bed it always done for both; 

They used the same war-sack, 
Stuck up for one another, 

'Nd all their money'd whack. 

Well, Bill and Sim one winter, 

'Twas back in '89, 
Were batchin' near a tradin' post 

Up north close to the line. 

39 



And they was havin' rafts of fun 
And spendin' lots of coin, 

Between the little tradin' post 
And old Fort Assinniboine. 



But one night they took in a dance, 

And there they met a gal, 
Twas old Buck Berry's daughter, 

His oldest daughter Val. 



Her right flame it was Valentine, 
They called her Val for short, 

And she was fine a little rose 
As bloomed in that resort. 

40 




Z o 
5 * 



< 



Her hair was kinder yaller 
And shined like placer gold, 
And on the hearts of Bill and Sim 
She got an awful hold. 

So when she danced with other men, 
Well Bill he'd hit the kag, 

And when Sim couldn't get her smiles, 
He, too, would want a jag. 

Waltz, quadrille and polkey 
Was danced till break of day 

And both the fiddlers got so drunk, 
The durned chumps couldn't play. 

41 



Old Berry he was loaded too, 
And pulled his forty-five, 

And worked on one musichin, 
Like bee upon his hive. 



But nary toon could Berry 

With all his labor git; 
The women-folks put on theVraps, 

An' dancin' had to quit. 



'Twas tlfen the bloody fight was fit, 

The worst I ever saw, 
And I have seen some red hot scraps 

Come off without a flaw. 

42 



You see Bill he was stalkin' round, 

Intoxicated quite 
On love and Injun whiskey, 

And itchin' for a fight. 

While Parson Sim he too had on 

A pretty decent load, 
'Nd tackled Val to take her home, 

In language a-la-mode. 



But just as he was askin' her, 

And she got up to go, 
Bill he come up to where they was, 

A walkin' kind of slow. 

43 



And with a sort o' stately bow, 
He turned his back on Sim, 

And asked Val if she wouldn't take 
The homeward ride with him. 



Well, 'twas over in a second, 
A few cuss-words was said; 

Sim he was grazed along the cheek, 
And Bill was lyin' dead. 

And these poor Bill lay bleedin,' 
A-gaspin' hard for breath, 

With Sim a-standin' over him, 
His face as white as death. 

44 



A look of horror crossed his face, 
'Nd sorrer filled his eyes, 

As Bill's brave spirit left the clay, 
And started for the skies. 



I reckon that he thought of how 
In all those happy years, 

They both had been like brothers, 
And shared their joys and fears. 

Then moanin' like he took the gal, 
And started for the door, 

For she had fainted dead away 
When Bill dropped to the floor. 

45 



But there were soldiers in the room 

Just waitin' for a show 
To perforate a cow-boy 

Like Parson Sim, you know. 

And with a yell they pulled their guns, 

And made a sudden rush; 
They thought they held a winnin' hand, 

But Sim he had a flush. 



For now his fighting blood was up 

And layin' Val aside, 
To get her out of danger, 

He let the bullets slide. 

46 



And every time his gun would crack, 

A soldier hit the floor; 
The room was failed with powder smoke, 

And ran with U. S. gore. 

Old Buck he got his gal away, 
Then he come back to fight, 

But every thing was over, 
And he saw an awful sight. 

The soldiers they was lyin' round, 

A dozen men or more, 
Looked like the field of Gettysburg 

So many strewed the floor. 

47 



And Parson Sim was dyin* 

With his arms around poor Bill, 

His head a-lyin' on the breast 
That now was cold and still. 



He'd won the fight though wounded, 

The kneelin' by the spot 
Where Bill was lyuV cold in death, 

He fired the fatal shot. 



That let him follow after Bill 
He died without a groan, 

And with Bill restin' in his arms, 
He sought the great unknown. 

48 



We laid them on a sunny hill, 
They're sleepin' side by side 

Beneath the western prairie soil, 
Where once they used to ride. 

And Val she never married, 
But sometimes comes to weep 

And wet the flowers with her tears, 
Where both her lovers sleep. 



* 



49 



Ht the Hnimal Convention* 

Rabbit- 
In sweet repose beneath the rose, 

Where gentle breezes sigh, 
On nature's breast I would fain rest 

Forever and for aye. 

Deer — 

In forest wilds, where nature smiles, 
From hunters I would hide, 

And softly dream of wood and stream, 
While shadows softly glide. 



5o 



Bear — 

Amid white bones and pine tree cones 
On barren mountain's crown, 
In darksome cave, with paw to lave, 
I fain would lay me down. 

Wolf— 

I long to sleep where blood runs deep 

And dream of rippling gore, 
I'd like to eat a ton of meat 
An then — to eat some more. 



5i 



XZbc Old Cow-Bo/s €ale, 

"Right you are, son; in them days, 

A whizzer* wouldn't go, 
And when a man would try it on, 

His blood would shorely flow. 

"I reckolect a incident 
That happened up the crick, 

Between a loud-mouthed whizzer-man 
And Oklahoma Dick. 

"This whizzer gent was on a tare 

An' takin' in the town, 
An' in his rig an' shootin' rons 

Looked scary,* I'll be boun'. 

52 



"He loomed up tall an' savage, 
Like a hungry grizzly bear, 

With shootin' irons 'nd bowie knives, 
'Nd long, black colored hair. 

"Well, Dick an' me was sittin' in 

The Bloody Heart saloon, 
An' listenin' to the talent there 

A-renderin' of a toon. 



"When in this locoed stranger comes 

A-twirlin' of his guns 
'Nd grindin' of his snarly teeth, 

From which terbakker runs. 

53 



" 'Nd shakin'* of a load or two, 
To kind o' stop the deal, 

He yelled out in a bawlin' voice 
This darin'-like appeal: 

" 'My name is Long-haired Carter, 
An' my fad is killin' men; 

A corpse, it is my only friend ; 
My home, a slaughter-pen. 

" 'I'm a rattlesnake an' grizzly, 

My drink is pizen straight; 
I live on blood 'nd powder smoke, 
And lightenin' is my gait. 

54 



" 'My yell is like a death knell, 

I wade in human gore; 
The bravest men, they fan the breeze* 

Whene'er they hear my roar. 

" 'My eye is like the eagle's, 

My hand is sudden death; 
A graveyard blossoms at my door, 

And hell is in my breath. 

" The only music that I love 

Comes from a forty-five; 
I've killed more human bein's 

Than any man alive.' 

55 



"And when he finished up his song, 
He sorter glared around, 

As though lookin' for some chap 
Who hankered to be downed. 



"Well, everything subsided when 
The stranger took the floor; 

Some thought they wasn't needed, 
And soon vanished out the door. 

"The music!?, it was grindin' out 

A soft and solium air; 
When Dick, he queitly got up, 

'Nd, pushin' back his chair, 

56 



"He sauntered kinder calmly up 

To that bloodthirsty guy; 
Bit off a chew of twisted plug, 

'Nd spit it in his eye. 

'Then like a flash his gun he pulled 
'Nd brought her up, full cocked, 

To where old Long-hair's visage was 
A-lookin' kind of shocked. 

"Of course, we all expected then 
To see some shootin' done, 

,Nd crowded backward out of range 
'Nd waited for the fun. 

57 



"Well, you otighter seen that bully, 
With the juice a-runnin down, 

'Nd drippin' off his whiskers 
With a soft an' sicknin' soun'. 



" 'Nd throwin' up his tremblin' hands 
As high as he could reach, 

He dropped a-tremblin' on his knees 
'Nd gave out this beseech: 

" 'Oh ! pardner, save my life/ said he, 

'I wouldn't harm a child; 
My name is just plain Carter, 

And I'm anything but wild. 

58 



" 'Don't shoot, for God's sake, pard,' he said; 

'I didn't mean no harm.' 
You see, Dick's old six-shooter, 

It worked a sort of charm. 

"Well, Dick he emptied out his gun, 

And drilled a hole or two 
In Long-hair's hat and whiskers 

For the wind to whistle through. 

"And then he made him pull his freight, 

With orders not to lag 
Nor loiter by the road-side till 

He struck the sage brush sag. 

59 



"Well, Carter didn't wait to get 
A second bid, you know, 

But hit the highest places 
In his eagerness to go. 

"No, son; you couldn't work a bluff 
Them days, an make it stick; 

For if you ever tried it on, 
Some gent was sure to kick." 



& 



60 



H father's Hdvicc to FKs Son. 

Don't marry a girl with dark blue eyes, 
Whose love, the bards say, never dies; 
Their minds are narrow, their hearts are small. 
Their natures composed of unlimited gall, 

Beware of the girl with eyes of gray, 
For when you're wed she'll want full sway 
Of your business affairs ; also will use 
Your hat, neckties and, perhaps, your shoes. 

Avoid the girl with the soft, brown eye; 
They're all coquettes of the deepest dye; 
So watch yourself when one you meet, 
For, for downright flirts they can't be beat, 

61 



All black-eyed girls be sure to shun, 
They cause most evil now days, my son. 
In fact, if this life you would enjoy, 
Stay single as long as you can, my boy. 



& 



62 



0>e (ftotf Runt* 

Over the hills on a winter's morn, 
In the rosy glow of a day just born, 
With the eager hounds so fleet and strong, 
On the gray wolf's track we jog along. 



Closely scanning with anxious eyes 
The snowy crest of each rocky rise, 
Stealthily on in the morning air, 
The gray wolf seeks his rocky lair. 

63 



Back from the spoils of a midnight raid, 
Red are his jaws from the feast he made; 
But, cunning as ever, he glances 'round 
And sniffs the snow on the frozen ground. 



And now he stops and glances back 
On the crooked windings of his track; 
For, softly on the breeze has come 
A scent that makes his fierce heart numb. 

He also hears the crushing sound 

Of trampling hoofs on the frozen ground, 

And off he starts in sudden fear; 

His instinct tells him his foes are near. 

64 



And run thou must the Bad Lands o'er 
As thou hast never run before; 
For like the wind o'er hill and brake, 
Grim death comes dashing in thy wake. 



And now the hounds are in full sight, 
All eager for the coming fight, 
Urged on by many a lusty cheer 
From mounted hunters in the rear. 



Foremost in the chase comes Fly, 
Like meteor flashing through the sky; 
Then neck to neck and nose to nose, 
Brave Sport and Pedro swiftly close, 

65 



The intervening space that's spread 
Between them and the wolf ahead — 
While each one eager for the race, 
And old Don bravely setting pace. 

Bob and Queenie, Prince and White, 
Speed swiftly on in the morning light, 
Their motto is to do or die, 
And naught but blood will satisfy. 

Foot by foot and yard by yard, 

With waning strength and breathing hard, 

The wolf is swiftly losing ground, 

He feels the breath of the leading hound. 

His fierec jaws snap, his eye-balls glare, 

He struggles hard in mad despair. 

66 



The race is o'er, the battle won, 

The wolf lies dying in the sun; 

His midnight raids are of the past, 

He's met the conquering foe at last. 

Well done, brave hounds! Thy savage prey 

Was shrewdly caught and killed today. 



& 



67 



F)uman Discontentment, 

,Twas stifling hot, in the month of May, 

And all the people had much to say 

About the heat, and the need of rain 

In order to save the farmers' grain. 

And so the people in every town 

Prayed that the rain might soon come down, 

And their prayers were answered, and none too soon, 

For the weather was dry till the first of June. 

And the sky that for days had been so clear, 

Now showed signs that a storm was near; 

The clouds on the earth their contents poured, 

The lightning flashed and the thunder roared. 



68 



And joy replaced each look of care 
As the grateful drops passed through the air, 
And men who for weeks had looked so sad 
Sang and joked, for their hearts were glad. 
Each wild flower raised its drooping head, 
And a look of gladness the land o'erspread, 
And the hosts of insects that came in waves 
Now lay dead in their watery graves. 
How musical sounded the soothing rain, 
As it pattered on roof and window pane, 
When the dark'ning shadows seemed to glide 
Through the driving mists at eventide. 
But when a month had passed away 
And the rain contined to fall each day, 



69 



The people began to groan and fret, 
And wish the country was not so wet. 
And campers who had planned for days, 
Now longed for the sun to shed its rays, 
And that the sky would change its hue 
From somber gray to its natural blue. 
But behind the clouds the sun still shone 
In the broad expanse of heaven's blue dome, 
And a brilliant rainbow in hues galore 
Informed us all that the rain was o'er. 
But thus it is that the human mind 
Will always have some fault to find 
With nature, as though God did not know 
When to have rain, sushine or snow. 



70 



FHdden treasure JVKne. 

Oh ! them good, old, lucky days, 

Them days of golden time, 
When Alder Gulch was famous, 

And Last Chance in its prime; 
When gold dust was as common, 

As needles on the pine, 
And Jim and me was workin' 

In the Hidden Treasure mine. 

The Treasure was a placer mine, 

And every single day 
We made a clean-up of the dust 

That in her sluices lay. 
And while the evenin' zeffers blew 

We saw the nuggets shine, 
When Jim and me was workin' 

In the Hidden Treasure mine. 



7i 



Them days, we never used to think, 

Or care about the way 
That politicians spent their cash, 

Nor what they had to say; 
For men had to be honest, 

Or else they'd stretch a line, 
When Jim and me was workin' 

In the Hidden Treasure mine. 



And when I sit and ponder 

On them old, happy days, 
When men were brave and loyal, 

Though reckless in their ways, 
The sun "it doesn't seem so bright 

As when it used to shine, 
When Jim and me was workin' 

In the Hidden Treasure mine. 



72 



But now poor Jim has passed away, 

The Treasure is all gone; 
Old Alder Gulch and Last Chance, 

They are "sad to look upon;" 
For now, above the very spot, 

A jobber hangs his sign 
Where Jim and me we used to work 

The Hidden Treasure mine. 



& 



73 



Sunrise in the Bad Lands* 

The dawn is breaking in the east, 
Above the bad-land hills; 

And an early rising camp-bird, 
His morning carol trills. 

A rabbit darts behind a bush, 

And sits in comic pose 
To gaze with startled eyes at one 

Ot bunnie's human foes. 

The month is crisp November, 

And the brown earth camly sleeps 

Beneath the pure white mantle, 
That on her bosom heaps. 

74 



The camp-fire smoke goes curling 
Upon the morning breeze 

Making rare and grotesque forms 
Among the leafless trees. 



The timid deer comes down to drink 

And play upon the sand, 
Along the old Missouri, 

So picturesque and grand. 



Then suddenly from out her bed, 
The sun breaks into view; 

To bid the world good-morrow, 
A greeting ever new. 

75 



Che Cow-Boy's f ate* 

One night on the fall beef round-up, 

In October of ninety-three, 
Jack and I stood guard together — 

This is what he said to me: 

"Yes, Bill, times have changed a little, 
Since we first learned how to ride; 

Country's full of barbed wire fences, 
And the range is not so wide. 

"And, Bill, you are rich and happy, 
Got a wife and lots of gold; 

Been a man and stuck to business,, 
While I — well, I'm getting old. 

7 6 



"Yes, I've been in many places, 
Sorter on the French qui vive; 

Wouldn't get but just located, 
When I'd up. and have to leave. 

"Have to pack my bed and vanish; 

Pull out for the high divide; 
Seek a new range, strike a cow ranch, 

Settle down and try to ride. 

"Get a good job on the roun-up; 

Make a stake and go to town, 
There fill up on Injun whiskey, 

Pull my gun and saunter 'roun\ 

77 



"Smoke the town and whip the sheriff, 
Play 'em high, and shoot and shout, 

Till the air was filled with music 
And the people all hid out. 

"Then I'd saddle up my private, 
Fog the street lights on the run, 

Till I struck the open prairie — 
Then my painting job was done. 

"That is why I'm Here tonight, Bill; 

Ridin' 'roun' this old beef herd, 
Listening to the coyotes holler — 

Echoes of the life I've blurred. 

78 



"And it seems like luck's against me, 
Now that I am getting gray; 

For you know the good, old sayin', 
'Every dog will have his day.' 

"I can't stand the hard knocks now, Bill, 
That I used to think was fun; 

And I'm like an old cow pony 
That's forgotten how to run. 

"Say, Bill; you may think I'm nervy, 

Wouldn't ask if I was flush, 
But a man can't stan' to winter 

Like a dogie in the brush. 

79 



"And I though I'd better ask, Bill, 
If you'd let me have a show 

Just to earn a winter's grub stake, 
Even if it's shovelin' snow. 



"For, you see, I ain't partic'lar 
What I drive at now-a-days, 

Just to earn an honest livin', 
For it's steady work that pays. 

# 
"And a man can't make a fortune 

Paintin' towns and gettin' drunk; 

Tried it long enough to know, Bill; 

Wish I'd all the coin I've sunk. 

80 



'Thanks; I knew 'twould be a cold day 
When you wouldn't help me, Bill; 

Didn't know jest where I'd winter, 
And the weather's gettin' chill. 



"These nights makes a feller wonder 
Where his summer work has gone, 

When the frost sticks to his whiskers, 
And he needs a coonskin on. 



"Hope we'll have a few more warm days, 
Till we get these cattle shipped, 

For this wind cuts like a blizzard, 

Makes me feel like I'd been whipped. 

81 



"Two o'clock! Well, who'd 'a' thought it? 

Time has flew on angel's wings, 
As I heard an eastern feller 

Tell a girl down at the Springs. 

"So, I guess I'd better hurry 
And wake up the next relief — 

Guess camp's over in that coolee, 
Just beyond the rocky reef. 

"So long, 'Bill; I'll see you later!" 
And old Jack passed out of sight; 

Gayly singing as he galloped 
To his death that stormy night. 

82 



For we found his lifeless body 
When the morning sun arose, 

With the diamond frost still sparkling 
On his blood be-spattered clothes. 

For, you see, his horse had fallen; 

Struck a hole, and Jack was caught, 
With his head crushed on a boulder — 

Thus his tragic death was wrought. 

Poor old Jack! Good hearted always, 
May his soul in peace abide, 

Where good cow-boys ride in comfort, 
Far beyond the "Great Divide." 

83 



Jack and Bill. 

Hemmed in by the fierce Nez Perce, 
On a wild and baren hill, 

Lay two cowboys, bravely fighting- 
One is Jack; the other, Bill. 

Fiercely yell the painted red-skins, 

As they circle to and fro, 
Eager for the white man's scalp-lock, 

And to see his life blood flow. 

Long and well the white men battle, 
One by one the red-skins fall, 

Till at length poor Bill falls backward, 
Wounded by a rifle ball. 

84 



"Jack, old man, my days are ended; 

That last shot was through the breast; 
But, before I cross the river, 

Grant me this one last request. 

"Promise me that when I've drifted 
To that land where cowboys go, 

That you'll let my dear, old parents 
And my faithful sweetheart know. 

"Take this ring and pack of letters, 
And this lock of golden hair; 

Give them back to gentle Nellie, 
To my love, so true and fair. 

85 



"Shell be waiting in the twilight, 
'Neath the hemlock on the hill, 

Where the morning glory blossoms, 
Round the old, moss covered mill. 

"Tell her how I've been intending, 
When the fall round-up was o'er, 

To return and keep my promise 
And to ride the range no more." 

Then poor Bill fell back unconscious, 
While old Jack fought grimly on, 

Fought until the shadows lengthened 
And the light of day was gone. 

86 



Night came on and in the darkness, 
While the red-skin sentries slept, 

With Bill lashed upon his shoulders, 
Old Jack down a coulee crept. 

Struggled over rocks and sage brush, 
Through a long and sultry night, 

Till the sunshine of the morning 

Brought the round-up camp in sight. 

Back to life the cowboys nursed Bill, 
Back to life and health once more, 

And he duly kept his promise 
When the fall round-up was o'er. 

87 



Jack returned the ring and letters 
And the lock of golden hair, 

But to Bill's thanks wouldn't listen, 
Said, for thanks he didn't care. 

Years have passed, and in a valley, 
Living with the birds and bees, 

Bill and Nell their nest have feathered, 
Sheltered 'round by green-wood trees. 

There they dwell in loving union, 

Living but to live again; 
Nell, the happiest of women; 

Bill, the happiest of men. 

88 



While in endless, dreamless slumber, 
Where the blue-bells raise their crests, 

With his task on earth completed, 
Old Jack in a coulee rests. 

Born and bred in western freedom, 
Rough he was; but who can say 

That the books will not be balanced 
In his favor judgment day. 



& 



8 9 



t3be Obsequies of 'jfacfc* 

Poor old Jack! we chose his bed-ground 
Where the lone pine throws its shade; 

And the willows wept in silence 
Near the grave we sadly made. 

Softly fell the snow, and ghostly, 
Like a shroud it hid the ground; 

And, but for the parson's preaching, 
"Silence reigned supreme" around. 

And we felt a trifle lonesome, 

As around the open grave 
We listened to the parson's words: 

"He hath taken what He gave." 

90 



Or other words to that effect, 

I can't remember now; 
But which ''seemed fitten" at the time, 

I heard old Bill allow. 

At the wind up of the sermon 

We all sang "Sweet Bye and Bye;" 

Likewise rendered "Rock of Ages" 
And "A Mansion in the Sky." 

And as in the grave we lowered 
That brave form, to rise no more, 

Every eye was over-flowin', 

Every cowboy's heart was sore. 

"Dust of dust to dust returneth," 
Then the parson slowly said; 

And the words seemed sad and solium 
To us mourners of the dead. 



91 



Thus we planted Jack that evening, 
While the snow flakes softly fell; 

And he sleeps within the bosom 
Of the West he loved so well. 



& 



92 



Vbc Cow-Boy's Grave. 

The cow-herd grazes calmly 

Among the grassy hills, 
And a soft Montana zephyr 

The sultry air distills. 

The sun is sinking in the west, 
The sky is bathed in gold, 

And I listened to the cow-boy speak 
As this sad tale he told: 

"See that lone tree in the coulee, 
Just beyond the rocky reef, 

Where the giant granite boulder 
Stands out in bold relief? 



93 



"Well, that lone pine marks the bed ground 

Of Jack's last long repose, 
Where the blue-bells nod in sorrow 

Where the breeze at evening blows. 

"And the gray wolf's howl seems dismal, 
When the nights are cold and drear, 

Like a lost soul's wail for mercy, 
Drawn out so long and clear. 

"There Jack sleeps in his lowly bed 

Beneath the rocky soil. 
No more he'll ride the festive bronk, 

No more the rope he'll coil. 

"No more he'll paint the western towns 

As in the days of yore, 
For Jack has crossed the river, and 

Will ride the range no more. 

94 



"No doubt you've heard the story 

Of how he met his end 
Between the camp and cattle 

Down yonder in the bend? 

"And how his old friend Bill stood guard 
All through that stormy night, 

A-singin' to that wild beef herd 
Until 'twas broad day light? 

"And how they found Jack's body 
When, the morning sun arose, 

With the diamond frost still glistenin' 
On his face and bloody clothes? 

"And I reckon you have heard of how 
His friend Bill rode to town 

To get a preacher and a box 
To plant Jack in the groun'? 

95 



"You see, they'd been together off 

And on for many years, 
And when Bill heard that Jack was dead, 

He lost some bitter tears. 

"And when poor Jack was buried 

The cow-boys stood around 
And watched the coffin lowered 

In the cold and dreary ground. 

"You've heard of how they knelt that day 

Beneath a wintry sky, 
And listened to the parson's words, 

While not an eye was dry? 

"And how his grave is kept so green 

By Bill, whose life he saved 
When he was sorely wounded 

And with the fever raved? 



90 



"And when those reckless fellows 

Lay cornered in the hills 
Behind their slaughtered horses, 

He nigh gave his life for Bill's? 

"But that's another story 
And its time for me to start 

These cattle for their bed-ground, 
So, my friend, we'll have to part." 

And off in haste the cow-boy dashed 
In the soft and mellow light, 

To point the cattle toward the spot 
Selected for the night. 

And as I rode to that lone grave 
Beneath the old pine tree, 

The blue-bells nodded in the wind 
And seemed to welcome me. 



Q7 



The little mound was covered 

With trailing evergreen 
And there were signs of loving care 

About the silent scene. 

The sun's last rays were glinting 
On the pine board at the head, 

And the old tree groaned in sorrow 
Above its cherished dead. 

And sitting there in somber thought 
In the slowly fading light, 

I read this simple epitaph 
Before it passed from sight: 

"Here lies poor Jack; his race is run; 

No more this range he'll ride; 
At last he's got a steady job 

Beyond the Great Divide." 

98 



? Twas carved in clear cut letters 
With rough but loving skill, 

The date was fixed and underneath 
The well known name of "Bill." 



& 



99 



H "Calc of Love* 

Venus, one mid-summer day, 

In all her wealth of power, 
Sent little Cupid out to play 

In shady nook and bower. 

Then with magi's wand she led 

Two young hearts to the mountains, 

Where running brooks are amply fed 
By Nature's crystal fountains. 

And as each pleasant day they spent 

Alone along the river, 
Little Cupid's bow was bent 

And arrows filled his quiver. 

ioo 



And as the time passed quickly by, 

As time will sometimes do, 
They wrote about the crimson sky, 

And photographed each view. 

Then Cupid, with his little darts 
All tipped and feathered neatly, 

Made war upon those two young hearts 
And routed them completely. 

And as with weary feet they fled 
From Nature's crystal fountains, 

They said the things they left unsaid 
Behind them in the mountains. 



& 



IOI 



Brookstde Raticbe. 

Nestled in a fertile valley, 

Where Dry Beaver finds its source, 
And the Little Rocky mountains 

To the clouds their summits force. 

Where the wild and reckless cow-boy 
Rides in all his careless grace, 

Heedless of surrounding dangers, 
Happiest of all his race. 

Where the music born of Nature 

Thrills the soul with strange delight, 

As it floats on western breezes, 
And the days are always bright. 

102 



Where the wild deer roam at pleasure 
O'er the Bad Land's rugged brakes, 

And the wild fowl fill the rushes 
Growing 'round the prairie lakes. 

There among the verdant foot-hills, 
Near a little mountain stream, 

Lies the ranche — that dear "Old Brookside, 
Lovely as a maiden's dream. 

Far from other habitation, 

Romance fills its every lane, 
As the changing landscape stretches 

From the woods to treeless plain. 

And the air was filled with fragrance, 

As we strolled, my love and I, 
In the green and cooling meadows 

'Neath the blue Montana sky. 



i<>3 



There, among the wild rose thickets, 
Massed along that little stream, 

Hand in hand we strolled together, 
Life was like a summer's dream. 

Till one day the voice of fortune 
Filled our ears with gilded tales, 

And we left our cherished "Brookside" 
With its hills and pleasant dales. 

Left its charms, but not forever, 
Such a fate could never be, 

Life would be devoid of pleasure 
If our ranche we could not see. 

So each year we'll pack our baggage, 
In the golden summer time, 

And we'll spend a month of pleasure, 
At "Old Brookside," so sublime. 



104 



Oe Indian's €ak of Christ. 

Far from the white man's habitation, 

Under the northland's smiling sun, 

Where, like a huge wave rolling down, 

Mountain and plain blend into one; 

There, where the shadows and sunbeams meet, 

Once was the home of the great Blackfeet. 

Lost in the clouds that veil the skies, 
The crest of the Rockies bravely rise 
Jagged and crowned by eternal snow, 
Faithfully guarding the plain below, 
That by Dame Nature's hand is traced 
Like an apron hung from her ample waist, 
With rivers that burst from crystal springs 
To act as nature's apron strings. 

105 



The home of a tribe once rich and strong, 
That ruled o'er their country well and long. 
But as kings e'en bow to the hand of fate 
That makes brave hearts as desolate 
As the barren sands of a sea-girt isle, 
So bows the red-man, and yet the while 
In his inmost soul he never yields, 
But curbs the passion his spirit feels, 
And trust to the Manitou, czar of men, 
To place him back on his throne again. 



In all its strenght, one summer day, 
Of just wh,at year there's none can say- 
The old red-men say, long ago, 
And what they tell is all we know — 
The Blackfeet tribe, in grand display, 
Along the Medicine river lay. 

1 06 



The great sun-dance with tortures vile 
Was being danced in royal style, 
And, grimly, on both day and night, 
The Blackfeet danced with all their might; 
The youthful braves, with savage zest, 
Enduring well the torture test. 

Bathed in the light of breaking day, 
The camp in regal spendor lay, 
While formally greeting the rising sun 
With weird chant and doleful drum, 
'Round and 'round with solemn tread, 
The warriors danced and sang and bled. 

Sang and danced both young and old, 
Praising the sun with its beams of gold; 
Danced as the silvery moonbeams dance, 
As on the river they float and glance; 
Sang as the wind in the tree-top sings ; 
Sang of the joy that the sunlight brings. 

107 



Sang like the wolf on the lonely hill; 
Sang the song of the mountain rill ; 
Danced as their fathers danced of old, 
As into the sky the great sun rolled; 
Sang and danced in many ways, 
Blessing the sun's life giving rays. 

Thus it was that summer's morn, 
When into the Indian world was born 
A chief from out the rising sun, 
Whose advent was a welcome one — 
The Father of Men, the Manitou, 
Into the world was born and grew. 

Forth from the spirit land he came, 

From the happy hunting grounds, his name 

Soon dwelt dear on every tongue, 

His praise by every lip was sung. 

Wise in council, brave and true, 

Called by men the Manitou. 

1 08 



Wise was he, no man as wise. 
Out of death the corpse would rise; 
The deaf could hear, the blind man see, 
At a word from him, so wise was he. 
Ah! happy then the people grew, 
The world was changed from old to new. 

He told of a land beyond the sky 
Where people live and never die; 
Dancing and singing, they never tire; 
Where suckling babe and white-haired sire 
Are made both strong of limb and mind 
And fleet of foot as the prairie wind. 

Where people soar with wings of snow; 
Where live together friend and foe. 
Thus this prophet came and spoke 
And in each Indian heart awoke 
A feeling never there before — 
A longing for this mystic shore. 

109 



But on the fourth his eye grows dim, 
His last horse falls from under him; 
His lance is broken, arrows gone, 
And yet he battles bravely on; 
Hurling stones of wondrous size, 
Till sank the sun in western skies. 

But one day when the sun was cold 
This prophet sought with footsteps bold 
The buflalo, where dwelt the Sioux, 
Who knew not of the Manitou. 
And while the heavens seemed to frown, 
Sent warriors out to strike him down. 

But brave was he, no man as brave; 
He hurtled back the blows they gave, 
And countless warriors bit the snow 
Beneath his deadly lance and bow. 
Three long days and weary nights 
Drag slowly on, and still he fights. 

no 



Where pausing on the mountain's brim 
It seemed to smile and beckon him. 
And floating on its beams of light 
Into the clouds he passed from sight; 
Back to his home beyond the sky, 
Where people live and never die. 

Thus came and went the stranger chief, 
And, though his stay on earth was brief, 
His teachings still remain behind 
In many a dusky warrior's mind. 
And when the sun sinks in the west, 
The Blackfeet say "He's gone to rest." 



& 



in 



*Cbe Little Cross* 

Back in the Bad Lands' rugged brakes, 
Colored by nature's magic art, 

Stands a cabin in sad decay, 

That mutely appeals to the human heart. 

Rudely it's built of rough pine logs, 
Fitted together with careless skill, 

And but for a little murmuring brook, 
The air around is strangely still. 

Thickly the wild flowers blossom 'round, 
And the summer sky is calm o'er head, 

As the western sun moves slowly 
In its crimson colored bed. 



112 



A magpie wings its solemn flight 

To an old pine on the hill, 
And all seems sad and silent, 

Except the noisy rill. 

A coyote skulks among the rocks 
That crown the nearby ridge, 

And a rabbit sleeps beneath the shade 
Of an old moss covered bridge. 

And as I sit and ponder, 
And view this silent scene, 

A wild deer browses into view, 
The jagged hills between. 

And sitting on my restless horse 

In blissful solitude, 
I gaze and yet I hesitate 

My presence to intrude. 



"3 



And now the magpie leaves his perch 
In the old worm-eaten pine, 

And lights upon a little cross 
Half hidden by a vine. 

That clustered 'round its wooden frame 

As tho' with fond embrace, 
To mark the lone tho' sacred spot 

Of a child's last resting place. 

Only a little grave, and yet 
Beneath that grassy mound 

A little form sleeps calmly in 
The cold and silent ground. 

Only a little cross of wood, 

And a morning glory vine, 
Sheltered in the cooling shade 

Of an old storm-beaten pine. 



I gently pushed the leaves aside 
That clustered 'round the frame, 

To see if loving hands had traced 
A line, or even baby's name. 

These simple lines and nothing more, 

Were there to tell the tale 
Of a child's sad death, a broken heart, 

And a mother's anguished wail. 

"Little Ned, our darling tot, 
"Sleeps in this wild and lonely spot, 
"And with him sleeps his mother's love, 
"His soul is with his Father above." 

Ah! whose but a mother's gentle hand 
Could smooth with loving care 

The earth above her baby boy, 
And place those flowers there? 



"5 



For now I see a little bunch 

Of pansies dried and old, 
Tied with a faded ribbon 

All streaked with clinging mold. 

And as I hastened from the spot 

Beneath the old pine tree, 
The coyote gave a mournful howl 

That almost startled me. 

The wild deer vanished in the hills, 

The rabbit left the shade 
Beneath the old moss-covered bridge 

At my unseemly raid. 

The magpie soared on solemn wing 

Above the grassy mound, 
Where slept his little playmate in 

The cold and clammy ground. 

116 



And rocking in the coming breeze 

Above his earthly bed, 
The old pine sang sweet lullabies 

Above its cherished dead. 

No marble slab with chiselled words 

Could half so sacred be 
As that vine-covered little cross 

Beneath the old pine tree. 



& 



117 



"Che Cow-Boy's Reply* 

Old and blemished and flecked with gray, 

A cow-horse feebly stands 
A weak reminder of the day 

He smote the desert sands 
With flying hoofs that held the speed 

Of wings or prarie wind, 
The model of a noble breed, 

His equal hard to find. 

But e'en as since the world began, 

The march of Father Time 
Has spared not beast nor even man, 

But passeth on sublime; 
Hence, burdened with a score of years, 

The old horse bravely stands, 
No more he'll chase the long-horned steers 

Across the prarie sands. 

118 



His head drops low, a mist bedims 

That eye once full of pride; 
A tremor passes through his limbs, 

His age he cannot hide, 
But hark! his cow-boy owner speaks 

With cold scorn in his words, 
A flush of pride lights up his cheeks, 

And ill his wrath he curbs: 

"No, stranger, not for all the wool 

That grows upon your bands, 
Not even for your money, fool! 

Nor all your stolen lands, 
Would I, while able to draw breath 

Or pull a trigger straight, 
Sell that old friend — I'd rather death 

Would hurry up my fate." 

"So pard, I laugh your bid to scorn! 

Your money you can keep! 
For that old horse was never born 

To drive a band of sheep!" 

119 



Zbc Cow-Boy's Regret* 

Whoop-Up City it was called, 
In them old, happy days, 

When cow-boys they wore cutters, 
And were genteel in their ways. 

And when I look at that old town 
And see them cussed swells 

A-ridin' wheels with boy's pants on 
And pngin' little bells. 

While by their side, or else in front, 

As bold as any man, 
A gal with men's apparel on 

The breezes swiftly fan. 

1 20 



Why, it makes me feel that should this world 

Come to a sudden close, 
I could gladly cross the river 

That for everlastin' flows. 

And with the pretty angel gals, 

A-soarin' trough the sky, 
I'd barg'in for a pair of wings, 

And try and learn to fly. 



& 



121 



Cbc Montanas at Caloocan* 

The boys lay in their trenches, 

All eager for the fray, 
Before the town of Caloocan 

On that eventful day. 

Old Glory floated over head 
And courage filled each breast, 

For they were from Montana, 
The Queen State of the West. 

Where nature smiles serenely 

Beneath a western sky, 
And the mountains' war-scarred summits 

Echo back the eagle's cry. 

122 



The bugle sounds the charge along 

That waiting line of blue, 
And at its clear and signal notes 

The boys charge straight and true. 

"Hurrah for the Montanas!" 
Was the shout that rent the air, 

And burst from Utah warriors' throats 
Amid the battle's glare. 

For step by step, in perfect line, 
They marched as on parade, 

To take the town or meet his death 
Was what each soldier prayed. 

Like countless wasps the bullets swarm 

Around that gallant band, 
But on to the charge our heroes go 

With a cheer for their native land. 



[2 3 



They rout the foe, the Stars and Stripes 
Wave o'er the burning town; 

The flag that never yet has found 
A foe that could haul it down. 

So let us sing a song of praise 

For each and every one 
Of those brave boys who fought so well 

Beneath a tropic sun. 

And also, let us shed sad tears 

For those who nobly fell, 
For he who meets a soldier's death 

Has done his duty well. 



& 



124 



Nature's Grand Opera. 

I love to hear the raindrops 

On the old woods patter down, 
'Tis a softer, sweeter music 

Than you listen to in town; 
With hailstones for the tenor, 

And old thunder for the bass, 
The raindrops sing soprano 

As they seek to kiss your face; 
While to and fro with silent grace, 

Chain-lightning bravely tries 
To dance the mystic serpentine, 

Along the stormy skies. 



125 



'Tis an opera from nature, 

Only played on nature's stage, 
And 'tis in the merry spring-time 

That it seems to be the rage; 
The setting of the stage, is 

Well adapted to the play, 
With its clouds of inky blackness 

On a curtain somber gray; 
But the last act is the master stroke 

When, t arching over all, 
The rainbow, grand, spectacular, 

Forbids the rain to fall. 



126 



evening in the Bad Lands* 

A sultry day draws to a close, 
Among the Bad Land brakes; 

And the summer sun sinks in repose 
Beyond the prairie lakes. 

The landscape spreads before the eye 

A panoramic view, 
That stretches out from sky to sky, 

In ever changing hue. 

The swift Missouri sweeps along 

Its rough and rocky bed; 
Singing a hoarse and sullen song 

Above its silent dead. 



127 



Softly the old trees sigh o'er head, 
Woo'd by the western breeze; 

Like love-lorn maid by Cupid led 
Among the birds and bees. 

Dame Nature smiles with lazy mein, 

As in the changing light 
She doffs her bright and lively green 

And takes the garb of night. 

Each bird has sung his evening song, 
The bees have gone to sleep; 

And night treads silently along 
In shadows thick and deep. 

A grand and peaceful star-lit night, 

That folows after day; 
And comes with soft and soothing touch, 
To charm our cares away. 

128 



And yet what countless sins are wrought 

In one short summer night; 
Behind the mask of darkness that 

Obscures the human sight. 

By men and women, young and old, 

All heedless of the fact 
That God is watching over all 

And sees each covert act. 



& 



I2Q 



Old jack's Introduction to ^lild Rorse* 

"Wild Horse was surely a promisin' town 'long 
'bout '83," ventured the old cow puncher, in reply to a 
remark I had made concerning the town we had just 
passed through on our way from the round-up camp to 
the Cross P ranche, at which place I hoped to meet my 
friend and business associate, Mr. M — . 

"These here hills were covered with cattle them 
days; wages was high and cowboys was onto their busi- 
ness and wasn't mixed up with kids and greenhorns, like 
nowadays with a bunch of dogie* cattle, and imagine 
nowadays with a bunch of dogie cattle, and imagine 
they've learned all there is 'bout punchin' cows. 

"And the captain of a round-up them days had to 
be a sure enuff cow-man in order to hold his job. He 
had to have plenty of practical cow-sense, or he couldn't 
hold his position no longer'n you could throw a bull by 
the tail." 

Then pulling his horse down to a walk, old Jack 
seemed to fall into a pensive frame of mind, from which 



130 



I aroused him by saying: "But you were commencing 
to tell me something about Wild Horse — " hoping to 
get him started on one of his cow-boy stories, in which 
line I knew him to be an adept. Awakened from his 
reverie, he made the following response to my sugges- 
tion: "Well, I on'y kind o' remarked that this here 
camp wasn't always on the bum, an' when I first saw it, 
things was run high an' open, an' every man was your 
friend out an' out, or your deadly enemy, one or t'other. 
No half way between business went them days, you can 
gamble on that. 

"When a man pulled his gun he had to use it or 
take his medicine, unless, of course, he got the dead 
drop, in which case things could be sort o' complimised, 
as it were. 

"Wild Horse at that time had the most genteel and 
legitimate graveyard in the country — what I means by 
legitimate is, that every gent reposin' in her had died 
game, with his boots on an' his gun smokin\ 

"And you consequently conceive that we was ju- 
dishesly proud of our little health resort. Did I help to 



131 



build said cemetery? Well, with ondue respect to the 
other survivors, who was active members and observers 
of law and peace, I presume to modestly remark, with- 
out any complication of conshunce that I duly caused 
five to be planted therein, all done up in fair and consid- 
erate gun practice — the result of which I carry a few 
suvineers, such as these." As he said this my compan- 
ion threw open his shirt bosom and exposed a chest 
bronzed by years of hardship and blemished here and 
there by ugly looking scars, evidently caused by knife 
and bullet wounds. Then, after grimly enjoying my 
astonishment, while he rolled a cigarette, he calmly re- 
sumed his conversation: "Yes, pard, them was certainly 
stirin' times, an' I well remember the first time I struck 
Wild Hoss. I comes ridin' up to a hitchin' post in front 
of the Bloody Heart saloon, which was the most austen- 
tatious and poplar business house in town, when out 
comes a couple of tin-horn gamblers and a cow-puncher 
called Panhandle Ben, a-cussin' of each other in lan- 
guage most disrespectful, and just as they struck the 
sidewalk, the tin-horns they pulled their guns and com- 



132 





>' 

IB 




menced to fog* Ben up a batch. They wasn't any 
quicker than old Panhandle, howsomever, but, you see, 
they had previsly touched* Ben for his gun, while he 
was under the influence of tangle-leg sperrits, and had 
taken out ail the cattriges, so, naturally, his gun 
snapped. 

"Well, there they was a-foggin' poor old Ben like 
he was a beef, an' him a-dodgin' an' a-snappin' of his 
old shootin' iron, an' lookin' awful desperate like — the 
bullets makin' themselves shorely numerous and drillin' 
of him like he was a swingin' target. Of course, he knew 
he was up against the worst of it, as was self evident 
from the oppression of his countenance. 

"Well, it was shorely too much for any gent to 
withstand — too many for yours trooly, anyway, so with- 
out any ondue recitation I pulls my guns an' cuts down 
on them there tin-horns, a-throwin' fire an' brimstone 
like a camp meetin' preacher. An' when the fireworks 
was over and the smoke had kind o' floated off on the 
evenin' zeffer, I sees the enemy is completely analised 
an' defeated, bein' as how they're layin' on the sidewalk 



1.33 



a-swelterin' in their gore, an' so dead you could almost 
smell 'em. Old Panhandle, he was punctured two or 
three times through the carcass, but eventooly resusti- 
cated sufficiently to thank me generously for my timely 
reinforcements before he coughed up his sperrit a cou- 
ple of hours later on. 

"This, pard, was the way I made my eggsit into 
Wild Hoss town, an' it was shorely a cheerful one, con- 
siderin' as how the boys all gave me a most welcome 
conception in the Bloody Heart whisky tepee that night, 
an' made me chairman of their committee on town laws 
to promote peace an' prosperity in general." 



& 



134 



€be ftalf-Breed's Cale* 

"Yas, pardnair, dat am T'ree Butte, dat where 

Gen'l Miles she'll fight de hinjun, de Nez Perce, 

de same what steal my ole 'omen and take de hair ob 
my brudder, five — ten — fifteen year ago. By gar! de 
ole 'omen she'll be mighty fine gal den, and was cos' me 
seventeen pony an' four sack tobacco; she half-breed 
blood hinjun, adop' by de Assneboine war chief, Medi- 
cin' Bear. 

"Dem day, me was hunt de buf'lo an' sell de hide to 
white men trader, what keep de store at Hood Camps, 
'long Missour' river, and sometime trade wid de hinjun, 
too. Well, one day, when de sign was good, me out 
look for de buf'lo; been on trail all day; mebby so, 
twenty mile from de camp. Sun she'll be pretty hot, 
an' pony she be gettin' pretty tired, and me starve like 
de wolf in winter — wid no meat, no tea, no flour for to 
eat. But jus' when me t'ink me look for de water hole 
an' make some camp for de night, me see 'way off on 
de hill one big dus', like de cattle what she'll make on 

i35 



de roun'-up when de cowboy she'll cut out, or rope de 
ca'f. Well, by gar! me t'ink all de buf'lo on de pra'r' 
dey'll be in one big bunch when me see dem come ober 
de hill, wid plenty hinjun ridin' all' roun' dem. Well, 
me get behind de cut-bank and t'ink me watch till dey 
go pas', 'bout half mile off. 

"But one hinjun, she'll get after one ole buf'lo bull 
an' run him an' shoot him wid de arrow, but his pony 
pretty tired an' not can run fas' 'nough to catch ol' bull. 
Well, by gar! here dey came as straight to me as de 
goose she'll fly, an' when de hinjun get close by, me 
know him to be Black Cloud, de Nez Perce wa't kill 
my brudder and steal my squaw. What I do den? 
Well, by gar! me laught a pretty good laugh an' watch 
de hinjun run de buf'lo down de cut-bank in de coolee 
out ob sight ob de oder hinjuns, an' him all time shoot 
de arrow 'way at ol' bull. Den I take de rifle an' ride 
after her — she no see me, she want kill ol' buf'lo so 
bad — so me run up behin', shove de gun in his back an' 
tell him stop his pony. Well, by gar! she know me, an' 
look pretty scart, like de coyote in de trap. But I take 

136 



his hunting bow an' long knife an' make him get off his 
pony an' lay down on de groun'. Den I cut some string 
an' tie him like de cowboy tie de big steer. She look 
pretty sike, like do poison dog, but I laugh all time an' 
tell him mighty glad to see him, all same brudder; but 
she no seem glad see me, 'cause she know she mus' die. 
Well, me take de hinjun's bow an' arrow an' go back 
an' kill de ol' buf'lo bull in de coolee — cut off some de 
meat, eat some de raw libber to make me strong heart, den 
come back, put hinjun an' meat on de hinjun pony an' 
go 'way back in de hill, where Black Cloud's frien's no 
can come, an' all time I talk an' laugh at Black Cloud 
an' call him squaw fighter, heart like de li'le bird, an' 
all de oder bad names dat I t'nk, but she no say one 
wor' jus' keep his mout' shut, like de pony. Well, me 
take him 'way off in de Bad Lan's, maby-so t'ree mile ; 
make li'le fire, cook an' smoke, an' laugh at Black 
Cloud, an' tell him she's pretty goo' man for fun. Den 
when de moon she'll come up ober de hill, I put some 
buf'lo skin in de hinjun's mout', tie him to de groun', 
an' den I take de two pony an' start for de big hinjun 

i37 



camp, w'ere I know I fin' my ol' 'omen w'at Black 
Cloud stole. I soon fin' trail w'at plenty pony make an' 
w'en de moon she'll be jus' ober de feder in my hat I 
fin' my squaw, steal some fresh hinjun pony an' go back 
to Black Cloud. Course, de ol' 'omen she'll be pretty 
glad see me, 'cause Black Cloud she'll be pretty mean 
to him an' hit him plenty wit' de club, so his back all 
cut like in de sundance. Black Cloud she'll look pretty 
mad w'en we get back an' try to break de rope an' eat 
de string, but his mout' too full buf'lo robe. 

"Well, I tell my squaw to put de long rope on 
Black Cloud's feet an' tie it to one pretty wild pony. 
Den I take Black Cloud's hair an' say "Good-bye, 
Black Cloud, wit' de li'le heart; you go back to your 
people.' 

"Den we get on de oder ponies an' turn de wild 
pony loose wid Black Cloud, an' 'way she go like de 
win', ober de rock an' sage brush, straight for de big 
camp. Well, me an' my ol' 'omen we'll run 'longside 

an' whip de Nez Perce wit' de long raw-hide till 

she's dead, den we come back to ol' Fort Bel'nap an T 
dance t'ree day and night wit' de Assneboin' hinjun.'* 

138 



3 W 



